


Drink

by faerymorstan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Ficlet, Danger Night, First Kiss, M/M, Pining Sherlock, Poetry, Polyfidelity, Prose Poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-11
Updated: 2015-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-22 09:58:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3724615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faerymorstan/pseuds/faerymorstan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>for <a href="http://anyawen.tumblr.com">anyawen</a>, who won a fic from me in a tumblr giveaway. here's a twist on "things you said after you kissed me"--hope it works for you. *hearts*</p>
    </blockquote>





	Drink

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anyawen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anyawen/gifts).



> for [anyawen](http://anyawen.tumblr.com), who won a fic from me in a tumblr giveaway. here's a twist on "things you said after you kissed me"--hope it works for you. *hearts*

“Come on,” John says, steers Sherlock--sweat-soaked pyjamas, shaking hands, nicotine patches--toward the sofa. “Lie down. I’ll get you a glass of water.”

Sherlock sits. Swallows. _Don’t leave._ “Don’t need one.”

“Yeah, you do.” John leaves. The faucet runs. John (put on shoes but not socks in his rush to Baker Street--was asleep when Sherlock texted--kept a hand on Sherlock’s knee the whole ride to the suburbs) holds a glass to Sherlock’s lips. “Drink.”

Sherlock drinks.

The glass clinks on the coffee table: oak; secondhand; original owner an anesthesiologist. Mary’s. 

Sherlock lays down. The sofa’s sturdy. Plain. Plaid. Scratchy fabric splashed with scotch. John’s. 

A blanket lands over him. 

“I didn’t ask for this,” Sherlock says, pulls the blanket to his chin.

“What, the blanket?” John taps Sherlock’s legs; Sherlock makes room for John to sit. “You’ll live.”

The pillow under Sherlock’s head is black, scalloped, smells of yeast and gardenia. Mary’s. 

Nothing here is Sherlock’s.

Least of all John.

Sherlock sits up.

“Oh, for fuck’s--.” John rests a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock, for once, just _once_ , could you just--.”

Sherlock cups John’s face in his hands feels stubble leans close tastes toothpaste toffee scotch and John’s lips are--.

_No._

Sherlock pulls away. “John. I--I’m sorry.”

Hands on Sherlock’s nape. Lips on Sherlock’s own. “Don’t be.”


End file.
